A Contemplation
by Hellina DuBois
Summary: Sybil seeks Branson...The world that exists between them.
1. Chapter 1

You know it's going to be a bad day when you smack your head on the expensive belly of the motorcar upon hearing your employers beautiful daughter enter the garage, alone.

Even worse when she doesn't close the door behind her.

But it's difficult to be sulky when you see her outlined against a pink, buttery sky, the golden sunset that is so rare in Yorkshire. And it's difficult to forget that she came to see you, and you alone. Just like the dreams that you hang on the walls of your imagination, her face lit up by the dying sun, close to yours, and the frantic worry of streaks of dirt across your chin, of your heart surfacing in your eyes, doesn't matter. Not anymore. Because she's come closer, and your stomach twists, feels weak. Your skin tingles. Sybil. Her name is soft, sibilant, and you think how its richness suits her, in mind and body, You wonder if she's watching you.

"Branson?"

Her voice snapped him out of the soft paths of his mind, brought him to the surface, where he gazed at her in surprise.

"Erm... yes?" His lack of title runs through her slowly, like a clear brook in amidst her teeming mind. Sybil is constantly aware these days, of who, or what, is behind her, ahead of her, the decisions her untiring spirit is fuelled from, but his eyes never seem to leave her these days. It's as though he's always watching her, as though he's reached in and taken hold of her heart. And the feeling terrifies her, but it doesn't upset her. Not like it should.

"I was wondering how you are."

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, and she blinks a little in surprise as Branson takes her in, amused. For his part, he's wondering how so many thoughts can occur in such a delicate space, wonders if her mind really can be at such odds with her body.

"I'm very well thankyou, how about you?"

He still doesn't use her title. Or her name, come to think of it. He doesn't call her anything at all, and whilst it's not quite 'darling', it is different to everybody else's address. It isn't what he really wants to ask her. He wants to ask what she thinks of the pictures he discovered this morning, of the old city in Greece with the lion gates, and the gold faces they found there. He wants to tell her the world is bigger than this little garage. Just not without her in it. He's oblivious to her answer, and a long, slow silence follows, as her blue-eyed chauffeur slowly becomes aware he's daydreaming, again.

Sybil watches him shake his head slightly with affection, wonders what he is thinking of. Does she wish it were her? She came here to tell him of the dream she had last night, of the colourful trees and river the same shade as his eyes, and that he was at the centre of it, and the woody, leafy smell of outside that she loves so much was implicit in him as he pulled her closer. That it was a whole different world with him, and she felt like dust, unseen particles floating through without purpose, without drive, but beautiful nonetheless. And it is with every fear in the world that she draws in her breath and releases, without question, the request that hampers her long days, that whispers to her through the night. He watches in shock as she steps up to him (did he never notice before how tiny her hands were against his?) and whispers to him, for fear of the idea shattering in the noise of reality, _show me the world. _Sybil doesn't pretend to know what she's doing as she leans up towards his face, and notices how the fading light casts itself across his bright eyes, long lashes. She brushes her lips slowly across his, more an experiment than anything else, and is reminded of the giddy feeling being alone at the rally gave her, in such uncharted waters as these. She expected shock, but his body is fluid, warm, his hands travel across her arms to wrap round her, tightly, and before she can work out how best to pull him closer, he suddenly lifts her up, pushes her back against the bonnet of the car. Sybil gasps in the suddenness of it, the fact that Branson's body is now pressed firmly into hers, and the parallels between his name and his proximity thrill her.

He's more than aware of how young she is, untrained in love, and yet he bears down on her with that hunger that drives men to madness, opening the floodgates of his mind and allowing all the love and warmth to pour into her. He shudders as she wraps her delicate fingers into his hair, and can't resist pushing his hips up into her, gently, sending sparks convulsing up his spine. He feels her gasp, and the fact that she, an aristocrat's daughter, is not pulling away, only fuels his longing for her. He slowly traces the shape of her long legs through her thick skirts, before a noise from outside this little world shatters the illusion, pulls his hair sharply till he wakes, gasping, from her soft mouth. To breathe, and to pray the door will remain empty.


	2. Chapter 2

*I would like to say thankyou for all the feedback and reviews I've had- I've never published any of my writing before, and they absolutely made my day! :)

She can hear his breathing. It's ragged, and with every inhalation, his warm chest presses into her, slowly, slowly. Branson's eyes are glued to the grey frame of the door, ears pricked, senses buzzing with the sharp clarity fear lends in such moments. The silence is endless. He watches and waits, not daring even to set Sybil down, until the soft rustle that so panicked him sounds again, this time with a train of leaves and a cold, caustic wind that bites into the tension, and he can't help but smile as she asks him if he's afraid of the wind.

Turning back, he is just in time to see her catch her breath as he meets her eyes, wonders just what she sees in them to make her fingers tighten in his hair, and her delicate mouth to quiver. He can't look away. It's so easy to forget, he thinks, as he leans into her across the car, trying to protect her from the autumn chill. So easy to lose himself in this crease of reality that simply cannot be allowed to exist, yet exist it does, and they, they are creating a world right here, in the tiny concrete garage, as if anything at all were possible between them.

Sybil tries not to shiver, whether for him or the fading day, she cannot tell, but he nevertheless notices, pulls back from the soft kisses he is bestowing, and looks at her with concern-filled eyes, big, dark irises. Branson pulls back reluctantly, sliding the metal door closed, and she does not say anything, does not know what she _can_ say, as this tall, pale, beautiful man ambles across the concrete floor, towards her, for her, just like the dreams she was afraid to dream, in case they burst on the prickly reality. She is fully aware of her own desires, of her pulse throbbing away in the dark wine of her bloodstream, and inwardly curses his long legs, the warm tones of his arms, for stoppering her tongue so, for... _this_.

"You're responsible." It's barely more than a whisper, but she's said it nonetheless. Branson looks at her, and she's sure his eyes pale momentarily, before he steps up decisively, closing the gap he left in her personal space. The gap she was unaware existed, until now.

"I said, that you are entirely responsible."

Sybil holds out for as long as humanly possible, waiting for his response, before her lips begin to curve, and her slender body pushes into his, his cheek against hers, she whispers,

"You are responsible for my dreams... For every colour the world turns when you drive me fast in the car... and for my sanity."

Though she isn't sure either of them know what she means by sanity, in that moment she sees how he drops his head into her neck, both sees and feels the lack of boundaries, of barriers between them. And feels nothing wrong. As if they were both just consciousness, and she could keep him forever.

"You will be the death of me" He whispers.

No names. No title. She is floating in his arms, invisible between the grim, dull blocks of what she calls reality, the time she spends alone and lonely without him. Branson begins to notice the little things as he takes up his gentle exploration once more, the way her throat turns pink as he kisses it, the thickness of her hair, and the pale of the skin beneath it. His mind is spinning in time to her breath, the tiny moans she makes as his hands find purchase on her soft frame, her skirt sliding against his legs as he longs for the friction of her skin, to add fuel to the heat of her body with his own, to simply _be. _And as he winds his hands across the loose fabric of her blouse, leaving a flushed trail upon her skin, he feels no wrong. And he is breathless, yet exultant.

Sybil feels his hands on her, the strength and affection implicit in all his movements, and she wonders if the pinpricks she feels every time he touches her, (for she has never been touched like this before, not ever) are beneath his skin, lending their electricity to her, golden sparks. She expected the world to be black behind her eyelids, but the sheer joy of Branson's mouth on hers is enough to spark off a glittering spectrum across the circles of her mind, to clutch his thin shirt and pull him against her. Thinking is becoming tiresome. She's not close enough, needing to feel as though she could drown in his rough skin, soft mouth, and she has an urge to open his shirt and pull herself inside, to merge with him until it was impossible to tell between them, to prise them apart...

"Sybil... Lady SYBIL!"

The shout, clipped by a soft accent, jolts them. Spinning, straightening, Branson jumps away from his lady as though he's on fire. Sybil registers the high, clear calling, running her hands across the cold chiffon and pushing her way towards the door, before anyone can enter and see Branson, his blue eyes burning just a few feet away from her, can see the way his lips are parted hungrily and the faint pink marks her nails have left on his throat. She sees him rub them, gently, his eyes locked on her.

"Go. Quickly."

She does not need to be told twice.


	3. Chapter 3

The sky is split, burning orange between the grey clouds, and Sybil cannot help but stop and stare as she hurries to the next room, trailing newspaper and perfume as she goes. Busy, and grounded as she is, she has always harboured a soft spot for such rare natural beauty, underpinning her dreamy nature, big dreams. She wonders if he feels the same, allows the burning sun to stamp its mark on his eyes, his mind, because it lends light, light to illuminate the paths he takes, the corners he turns. And who he takes along with him. Sybil shook her head, snapping out of her fantasy as figures appear around the corner, talking, and her mother draws her in. Blue eyes, blue eyes. These are safe eyes. She wonders how safe his are. Or how safe she wants. They walk, towards the long window, and towards the light.

It feels to Tom Branson as though he's been waiting forever, for another chance, for her heels to come clacking across his grey floor. He spends his days losing himself in his books, great unwieldy tomes with faded print, plucking out sharp turns of phrase, transposing his tangled mind across cheap, rough paper. For all his assured words, she terrifies him. Sybil. On days when it is too icy to drive, to leave Downton's warm ellipse, his pale hair shines beneath the white sun, skin flushing in the unforgiving cold. And it was during one of these days that she came to him. He'd been walking, out across albino grass, between silent trees, when a high, clear calling and light footsteps spun him round. She was hurrying across the grass towards him, eyes bright in the cold, small, slender body wrapped heavily in furs.

"Tom! Tom Branson!"

Her shout of his name, though he knows he should expect no less after all that they've done, slips down his throat like something tangible, warm, sweet. She comes to rest, breathing hard beside him, at such odds to the frozen beauty around her, he doesn't know what to say. She is the vibrance the black timber tree lacks, the silent snow can't compete with her voice, and her chauffeur is content in that moment, to stand and to stare, at his young mistress, at the simple space between them. Sybil catches her breath. The ground may be frozen, but her skin burns inside her thick coat, something she's not entirely convinced has so much to do with the weather, as with the man she's facing, and the quiet emptiness around them. Looking at him, she forces herself to break the silence cushioning them, to ask what she has been unable to get out of her head since the days she spent in retreat, camped out in the library.

"I've been reading."

He looks her over, undecided in how to respond. She sees this, presses on through her constricted thoughts, into his eyes.

"And I found your letters."

Now he reacts. She sees it in his eyes, a spark of recognition, of surprise and unguarded emotion. He looks incredibly vulnerable, and she sees the importance right there. She saw it in his handwriting, heard it on his long vowels, and now, now she touches it, through the thin connection drawing her body to his. A thin, intangible connection, like thread across an ocean. Sybil draws in her breath, tired of watching, waiting.

"Will you teach me to write?"

He blinks at her. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. He'd expected a fast, flushing remark, a quiet comment, and nothing more. She is passionate, he knows that, and clever, swift. But he'd never been able to link her with the intricacies of language before, the rousing call of a speech, though as he ponders it he is aware that her language is sophisticated, simple, and that she probably knows far more about intonation and frankness than he ever could. Idiot. She's staring at you, watchful, big, big eyes. Tom grabs her arm, leading her to the squat black shape rising from the morning mist.

"You'd better come in."

Tom Branson's lodgings are poky. It is the only way to describe them, not helped by the piles of well-thumbed books forming makeshift barriers between his bowed table, his bed. Sybil is quiet. He's incredibly aware of her, her proximity, carefully gauging the distances between her and his belongings, his body, his bed. With a light sigh of relief, she steps into the shaft of pale sunlight gleaming in through the window, cast across the chair, and she drops down into it, tilting her head to the light, and to warmth. Tom moves elegantly and smiles easily, swinging between the tilting piles that threaten to topple, but somehow never do. He avoids her gaze as he gathers ink, rough paper, takes a chair and sits beside her. It is so easy to hide inside the shell of propriety, so easy to start building stock speeches out of simple sentences, like building blocks of paragraphs. But it is not so easy to do this whilst her eyes follow your movements, the arch of the pen, your hands. Not least in your invisible surroundings, when her eyes are the only colour in the room. And if you truly want to teach her the secet, teach her how to make flowers bloom simply by opening your mouth, then you have to let her in. Let her inside, Tom. She won't hurt you. He clears his throat and begins to talk.

Sybil listens to the deep, rough pulse of his voice, imagines the things he tells her in clear, bright patterns, precise circles forming across her mind. She imagines the shape of the words, the tapered, hooked beginning and the smooth buildup, the different curves and tones that give meaning to its bulk. She imagines her own words, stuttered, uneven, like a cobbled street down which his ideas dance passionately. She sees how his speech has a physical manifestation, how his throat gently pulses with breath, how his hands flutter in front of him as he talks, caressing the shapes which she dreams. His eyes cling to hers, looking down, and she feels their liquid colour wash over her, running along every nerve ending, every synapse. He stops to rest, his hands lying lazily across the table, pen dripping, ink slow and heavy. Sybil takes his hand in fear, feels his warm skin bend around hers. Tom Branson looks down at their clasped hands, golden in the sunlight, and feels a smile touch his mouth. He knows she's scared, he sees it in her slow, gentle movements, her roving eyes, yet she still manages to tell him so much in a simple gesture, that it's all he can do not to carry her over to his bed, to lose himself in her scent, her reality. Instead, he grips her hand tighter, continues on, sifting slowly through his thoughts, lying aside the best ones, for her.

"Imagine you're standing beneath a tree. You're not in any place known to you, but you feel safe there all the same. The bark is warm, rough on your back, and you can smell the leaves on the air. You must be silent. And if you listen long enough, the tree will start to tell its story. Whispering, consorting with the wind, you'll learn peace. Close your eyes. Forget. If you take away everything tying you down, you start to float, don't you see? You become lost in the forest of your own imagination. When you open your eyes again, you'll see new shapes in the ground, deliate orange segments colouring the morning sky."

His eyes are blazing now, Sybil notices, but it's the sort of fire that comes from sudden, furious movement, fiery trails where he has run. She swallows hard as the lust comes, washing over her in cool, giddy waves, causing her to linger on his unshaven chin, his fluttering hands, like powerful birds fled from their chains, to roam and wheel in freedom. Sybil stands. She's been done with propriety for a long time now, where he's concerned, and she trusts him to understand as she speaks.

"I'm going outside."

Tom nods at her, his blue eyes catching on her so brightly, glittering so hard that she feels it, physically pulling her inwards, and before she can throw herself headlong into this ocean he's opened up to her, she runs.

Outside, cold is manifest. The thin air does little to cool her blazing cheekbones, and for lack of any other way to vent, she keeps walking. As if this desire, this _feeling, _is driving her, pulling her across the hard earth before she can smoulder her raucous laughter into the snow, she follows a path she cannot see, trying to stamp out the deep, warm distraction in her belly. She recalls the story of Agrippina and Nero. "Smite my womb" she murmurs, allowing some of her exultancy to break up her face into a smile. _Tom._ The sun burns a little brighter.

She's run so far, she no longer recognises the deep drifts of snow rising about her, feels small, and insignificant in the wake of his secrets. Sybil doesn't know she's spent all morning allowing him to lead her by the hand, through corridors of his mind richer than any she'd find at Downton, that she has left a fragrance lingering beneath his collar that he cannot rinse away. She doesn't know that the violence of the sunlight will shine shafts across her skin and though her dreams, and wash away the rules that have dried there in tidy words. That as she lifts her face to the sun and makes her decision in the quiet she's created, something jarrs and cracks in the ice deep below her.


End file.
